


Destiny's Call

by atoafriend



Category: Destiny (Video Games), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Geralt is a Titan and brings swords to gunfights, Geralt is an Awoken, Guardian!Ciri, Guardian!Geralt, Happy Ending, Jaskier is along for the ride, Jaskier is human, M/M, Roach is a Ghost, Techeun!Yennifer, Temporary Character Death, destiny au, mortal!Jaskier, so are Yen and Ciri, someone gives Jaskier a space gun and it's great
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22726306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atoafriend/pseuds/atoafriend
Summary: The adventures of Geralt, a Guardian of Earth, and Jaskier, a refugee-turned-chronicler, as they roam the solar system fighting against the enemies of humanty.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	1. Risen

II.

_When he first awoke, he was lying in a grove surrounded by flowers. They grew around him in an array of colors, iridescent and impossible. He had no memory of himself or how he got here; the little metal thing floating in front of him – a Ghost, it called itself – told him he had been dead for some time. Above him, the sky shimmered with stars, as if to reflect the glimmering beauty of his grave._

_No, not a grave. He was reborn now: this was his cradle._

_Whoever had laid him to rest had done so with care. His body had been covered with a large cut of cloth, which now lay crumpled on the ground next to him. In his hands he held two objects, the shattered hilt of a sword made of silver and a finely-crafted medallion of a wolf’s head, which he spent several long moments looking over carefully. He wondered what kind of person he was, to carry such objects around. They must have been important to him, for him to be laid to rest with them._

_A small part of him wanted to stay in this little paradise, but when he looked at the broken sword and medallion, he knew that was impossible. Something greater than himself was calling him; there was somewhere else he needed to be. So, he stood up and folded the cloth. He tucked the broken sword under his belt, and strung the medallion around his neck._

_He would answer destiny’s call._

* * *

“You’re an Awoken.”

Geralt looked up at the young man staring down from across the table. “You know, with the glowy eyes and skin and whatnot.” The man gestured in Geralt’s general direction. Geralt did not answer.

“I’ve seen your kind around,” he continued, ignoring Geralt’s stoic silence. “Always wanted to meet one of you up close. You’re all so mysterious, going about with…well, whatever it is you Awoken do.” He paused. “What _do_ you all do, actually?”

“Mind our own businesses,” Geralt answered, taking a sip from his cup. It was bad enough that his appearance made him stand out wherever he went, the last thing he needed was someone drawing even more attention towards him.

“Very funny,” was the man’s response, remaining undeterred as he sat down across from him. “So, what brings you here? Your kind rarely come down here – to Earth, that is. And certainly not to some run-down place like this.” He gestured at the ramshackle building they were sitting in that the locals called a tavern.

Geralt regarded the man’s eager gaze with his own cold stare as he took a sip of what passed for ale around here from his cup. As if he had any words to give; he knew nothing more about himself and “his kind” than this man did. Even if he did, he would not give such knowledge so freely to strangers. If he had learned anything from this second life, it was that no one could be trusted.

Still, it may be worth his while to humor this man a little longer. He might even learn something about these Awoken that he was supposedly one of. “And what would you know of ‘my kind,’” Geralt said, less of a question than a statement.

“Well, I’m the one asking, aren’t I?” the man said, but continued to answer the question anyway. “I’ve heard that the Awoken come from beyond the solar system, called here by the Traveler to aid humanity. That they’re born from stars, and can see the future and speak to the dead.”

Geralt almost snorted in amusement. See the future, commune with those who have passed – he could not do any of those things. At least, he never tried to.

The man stared at him expectantly. “Well? Is any of that true?”

“No,” Geralt replied, taking another sip. It was not a lie; he simply had no truths to compare it to.

The man watched him carefully. “You’re lying,” he said, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Maybe not about what I said, but you’re definitely hiding something.”

Shit. Geralt forced himself to remain indifferent as he lowered his cup. This man was smarter than he looked. Then again, he had to be, if he had survived for this long with the world in this state. “What makes you say that,” he said with a level voice.

“Because every other Awoken I’ve tried talking to has either completely ignored me or told me to fuck off,” the man replied. “But you – you’re the first one to actually speak to me. And I think I know why.” He leaned forward as he continued. “It’s because you don’t actually know…”

Fuck. Geralt left his hand near his cup, but the other was already resting on the handle of the weapon at his belt. The man must have seen something shift in Geralt’s eyes as his own widened in realization. “You’re one of _them_ , aren’t you?”

Of course it had been a mistake to talk to anyone, what had he been thinking? His kind was not welcome here – or anywhere, for that matter. It always ended in violence. The hatred of humanity knew no bounds.

As it turned out, Geralt would have bigger problems to worry about, as the door burst open and three armed and threatening figures entered the tavern.

Warlords.

Geralt cursed his luck. He had been hoping he could pass through this town without incident, but now there was no chance of that.

The people regarded the Warlords with fear and trepidation as they walked up to the young woman and the old man who ran the place – daughter and father, Geralt guessed. “You’re late on your payment,” one of the Warlords said, looming over the young woman with no regard for her.

Geralt watched carefully as the woman reached behind her and dropped a fistful of glimmer onto the countertop. The Warlord did not look down. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“There is no rest,” the woman answered. Her voice did not waver, nor did her hands shake; this was a regular occurrence here. “This is all we have.”

“That’s what you said last time, too. You know what happens to people who steal what’s mine.”

“She’s telling the truth,” the old man said, stepping forward. “There simply haven’t been enough people coming through to get enough for what you want.”

“Oh?,” the Warlord said, turning to stand threateningly in front of the old man. “And why’s that.”

The old man stared up at the Warlord with admirable resolve. “You know very well why.”

In a blink, the man was lying crumpled on the floor, blood welling from the marks on his face where the armored fist had struck him. “I’ll teach you what happens to any who pissed me off!” the Warlord threatened, his hand reaching for the automatic gun at his waist. No one moved to help, for fear of what the Warlord would do to them if they interfered.

Except for Geralt, whose knife was now held at the Warlord’s throat.

“Leave this place,” Geralt said, his voice low.

“Or what? You’ll kill us?” the Warlord jeered, his two companions snickering behind him. “Even death can’t stop us.”

“No,” Geralt replied, the edge in his voice sharper than the knife. “ _But I can._ ”

The fight that ensued was spectacular in its violence. Blood and screams filled the air as Geralt cut down the Warlords one after the other, dodging and absorbing bullets. By the time he killed the third, the first had already been resurrected – but before the Warlord could make a move against him, Geralt threw his knife through the air at the man’s Ghost drone still spinning in the air. At the same moment, the young woman pulled out her own pistol from under the counter and aimed it at the Warlord’s head.

The knife hit its mark with metallic crunch as the drone shattered in a burst of Light. The Warlord realized too late what had happened as the woman pulled the trigger and he collapsed to the ground. He did not get back up; this death was final.

The other two Warlords were alive again, but they did not make any moves to attack: one look at Geralt standing over the shattered Ghost told them that this was not a fight they would easily win. The sound of a gun recocking drew everyone’s attention back to the young woman. “Take the glimmer and leave,” she said, her pistol now trained on the remaining Warlords. They slowly obeyed, casting wary glances at Geralt as they pocketed the glimmer and left without another glance at their dead companion.

Once they were gone, Geralt knelt down to check on the old man. He could feel the eyes of everyone watching him as he held out his hand and his own Ghost materialized; there was no point in hiding her now. The room was filled with gasps and murmurs; Geralt ignored them as his Ghost scanned the old man for any life-threatening injuries. Finding none, she returned to hover next to his shoulder.

When he stood up, the young woman turned to aim her pistol at him. “You should go, too,” she said. The old man said something to her softly, but she ignored him. “We don’t want your kind here. We just want to be left alone.”

Geralt knew this was coming. Warlord or not, people were afraid of the Risen. Afraid of _him_. He did not blame them: he knew all too well the pain and suffering that this kind of power enabled. It would be foolish to believe that the occasional act of kindness on his part would so easily undo the fear and resentment.

He regarded the woman for a moment before nodding, then walked over to the remains of the Warlord’s dead Ghost to retrieve the knife. Everyone moved back to give him space out of fear – except for the young man from earlier.

“You’re a Risen,” he whispered. His eyes were wide, not with fear, but with excitement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanna make Destiny AUs of everything...


	2. Chosen

I.

_“Why did you choose me?”_

_His Ghost blinked. “What do you mean?” she asked._

_They were standing on a ridge overlooking a small campsite in a ravine, still smoldering with the smoke they had seen from a few miles away. He tried to get here as fast as he could, but by the time he had finished off the last of the Risen bandits, no one else was left alive._

_“You could have chosen anyone to bring back,” he said. He looked over the remains of the helpless campers; they had stood no chance against the Light-wielding Risen. The stench of burning flesh filled the air, but he was used to it by now. “You could have saved your ‘gift’ for one of them, given them a second chance. But instead, you used it on me. Why?”_

_“You think you don’t deserve this.” It was not a question._

_“I was too late to save any of them…”_

_“And would it have made any difference, if I_ had _saved it for one of them?” his Ghost asked, flying in front of him. “Even if I had brought back one of these people instead, do you think they could have survived for as long as you have? They’re just ordinary people. They aren’t warriors like you.”_

_“Is that what I’m meant to be?” he demanded, but there was no venom in his voice; he was too tired to be angry at fate anymore. “Some undead thing, cursed to a life of violence in the name of a dead god?”_

_“If that’s how you want to see it, then sure,” his Ghost said. She looked him in the eye. “You’re right, I could have chosen anyone. But I chose_ you _. Because you do more than just kill for your own sake. You believe in things greater than yourself, and you fight for what’s right.” She turned to look back over the ravine, and beyond. “Someday, other Ghosts might be able to give these people a second chance. But right now, what the world needs are people who can fight for that world. Right now, the world needs_ you _.”_

_They stood there in silence for a moment. “How could you know that? You don’t know me.” He looked down at the medallion that hung around his neck: the only hint he had of who he might have been in his previous life. “_ I _don’t even know me.”_

_“I can’t say_ why _I know,” his Ghost answered. “I just_ know _.”_

* * *

Geralt had not walked more than a few steps from the tavern when he heard the door slam open. “Wait!” someone shouted. It was the young man.

Geralt ignored him. He wanted nothing more than to put as much distance as possible between himself and this town. Like its residents, Geralt also just wanted to be left alone.

The sound of running footsteps grew closer as the young man caught up with him. “You’re a Risen!” he said again, breathless. “A Lightbearer! And you fought those Warlords like it was nothing…are you an Iron Lord?”

Geralt ignored the man, but his thoughts lingered on the title. Lately, he had been hearing more about these “Iron Lords”: Risen warriors who swore to use their powers to protect humanity and usurp the Warlords. People seemed to regard them as heroes of some sort, but Geralt was not convinced. The Iron Lords may claim to want peace, but in the end, they will simply replace the Warlords as the next tyrants. Such was the way of those who held power in their hands.

“No, I didn’t think so, either,” the man answered for him. "Still, what you did back there was remarkable! You saved all those people – "

“I did not ‘save’ anyone,” Geralt said gruffly. “I simply did what I had to do to make sure I could continue on my journey in peace.”

“Oh, oh yeah, sure. So you just decided to cut down a Warlord and scare off his pals on a whim, instead of waiting it out like a normal person. How very not-heroic of you.”

Geralt suddenly stopped and turned around to face the man, who stumbled to avoid crashing into him. “Let me make something very clear to you,” he said in a low, threatening voice. “Do not mistake my lack of bloodmongering for generosity. There is no place for kindness in this world. The only way to survive is to out-fight and out-live everyone else.”

To his credit, the man did not cower as he looked resolutely back at Geralt. “I don’t believe that,” he said firmly, as if he were not arguing with a near-immortal being who could snap his neck at any moment. “And I don’t think you do, either.”

Geralt turned away and continued to walk. “You know nothing about me.”

“Maybe not,” the man said, jogging to keep up with Geralt’s brisk pace. “But, I _do_ know that there are good Risen out there! Like you, and the Iron Lords.”

“And how would you know that.”

“Because I’ve met them.”

Geralt stopped to give the young man a doubtful look. “You’ve met an Iron Lord?”

“Well, not an Iron Lord, no,” the man admitted. “But he was definitely a Risen! Big guy – like you – in silver armor, covered in purple ribbons, carried a big ol’ shotgun. He…” The young man trailed off before taking a deep breath, and for a moment Geralt felt a heavy weight on his shoulders. “He saved my life. Told me about a place south of here: a city, built right under the Traveler, protected by dozens of other Risen like him, as well as Iron Lords. I’ve been trying to make my way there ever since.”

“And you believe him?” Geralt asked doubtfully.

The man shrugged. “What choice do I have? There’s nothing left for me back there. And I refuse to live out the rest of my likely short, miserable life like this, out here half-starved and cowering in the dark like some scared animal.”

Geralt’s first instinct was to doubt that any of that was true. This was not the first time he had heard about this so-called “last safe city,” but neither he nor his Ghost wanted to put faith into something that was little more than a rumor. It all sounded delusional, and hope was a dangerous thing to carry in the wilds. And yet…

He looked carefully at the young man. “What do you want?” he asked.

The young man looked at Geralt with determined eyes. “I want you to take me there. To that city. I know which way to go, but I’ve no hope of getting there myself. Between the Warlords and the Fallen, I wouldn’t last a week out in the wilds all on my own. But _you_ – " he gestured grandly at Geralt, " – _you_ have the power of the Light! You should have no trouble making your way there! And me, I can just tag along.”

“And what do I get out of this?”

The man blinked, taken aback by the question – but only for a moment. “Well, worst-case scenario, you’re no worse off than you were out here. But who knows! Maybe you won’t.” He continued on enthusiastically. “Maybe, there’ll be hot food and clean clothes and warm beds and the chance to sleep soundly without having to worry about getting garroted by scary aliens, and you can live out the rest of your probably very long – and boring – life in peace. Just the way you want it!”

Geralt turned towards his Ghost. “What do you think, Roach?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the man.

Roach spun the metal wings of her shell thoughtfully. “I think we should go.” Geralt looked at Roach in disbelief. “What? He has a point. We’d be no worse off heading out to this city than we would be wandering around here. Plus, it’s warmer down there. More chances to find food and also more bugs to keep the Fallen away.”

“She makes some _very_ good points,” the man chimes in.

Part of Geralt could not believe he was even considering this man’s offer, but what Roach said made sense. And a very small part of Geralt – the part that whispered to him whenever he looked at his medallion – was curious to see what they would find.

He looked up at the young man, who was eagerly awaiting his response. “Very well,” Geralt said. “I’ll take you there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made some minor adjustments to chapter one, so if you haven't already, please give it another quick read. :)


	3. Between

II.

_The broken sword hilt he held in his hands was not actually made out of silver. His Ghost said it was some kind of alloy infused with paracausal powers. It did not match anything in her database; she had no idea where it might have come from._

_“Paracausal?” he asked. “You mean, like, magic and stuff like that?”_

_“Like the Light, or the Darkness,” his Ghost explained. “Forces that disobey known laws of causality. Instead, they seem to function on physics which ignore or sidestep conventional cause-and-effect systems.”_

_“So, magic.”_

_He smirked at his Ghost’s exasperated sigh. “Yes, magic.”_

_“Huh.” He held the hilt up in front of him, watching the sunlight catch on what remained of its blade. He was no expert in weaponscrafting – at least, he did not think he was – but even he could tell that it was made with skill and care. If this thing was that powerful, then it must have taken something with even more power to have shattered it. “How old do you think this is?”_

_“That’s where things get interesting,” his Ghost said. “Not only does its atomic makeup not match anything in the known universe, but it also_ predates _the Collapse. This thing is beyond ancient.”_

 _He let out a low breath of amazement. “Then how’d_ I _end up with this?”_

_“Good question.”_

* * *

“By the way, don’t think we’ve properly introduced ourselves,” the young man said as they walked along a lightly worn road leading out of town. “I’m Jaskier.”

“Geralt,” Geralt replied. It was not his real name; this one was given to him by his Ghost. He had no idea what his real name might be. Not that it mattered to him.

“Huh,” Jaskier said, looking up thoughtfully. “Interesting name. Bold. Archaic…”

“It’s just a name.”

“Perhaps, but _you_ are a Risen. You don’t remember your previous name, and therefore have the luxury of choosing to be called anything you want!”

Geralt said nothing in response, just kept walking.

“You’re not much of a talker, are you?” Jaskier said after a few moments of silence. “You know, it’s going to be a long trip to get to the city. We’re going to be stuck together for a while, so we might as well get to know each other a little more, don’t you think?”

“There’s nothing to know.”

“Right, the whole ‘not remembering’ thing. I’m sure there’s a whole lore more to you than all this – " Jaskier gestured at Geralt, " – Risen stuff. Something driving you forward on the better path, I think. Something greater than yourself, than all the rest of us.”

“I don’t have a purpose,” Geralt said. This he truly believed. “No one does. Nor is there any ‘greater’ calling.” This he did not quite believe, but he said it anyway.

“And yet, here you are,” Jaskier replied. “You could’ve become another Warlord, but instead you spend your second life wandering the wastelands of Earth, defending the weak from the powerful.”

They walked on for a few more minutes of rare silence before Jaskier spoke again. “Everyone needs something to give them purpose to keep them going. Even you.”

Geralt considered his words. “And what is it that gives _you_ purpose?”

“Me? I look for the finer things in life,” Jaskier answered proudly. “I like to read between the lines, and try to figure out what’s there.”

* * *

Through all of their days of traveling, Jaskier almost never stopped talking.

Most of the time, Geralt willed himself to ignore him. Much to his chagrin, Roach seemed perfectly content to quietly listen to Jaskier’s ramblings, which only seemed to encourage him to talk more. “This is probably the longest he’s ever gone being around the same person,” she said one evening while they searched the woods for food, out of earshot.

“Don’t pity him, Roach.”

The wings of Roach’s shell spun indignantly. “I’m not pitying him, Geralt. He does have some genuinely interesting things to say. It’s a wonder he has time to think of all these things while also managing to survive for so long on his own.”

Geralt had thought the same. By now, he had had ample time to more carefully observe the young man. Up close, Jaskier could not have been much older than his teens. His scrawny frame was just short of Geralt’s own, covered in clothes made from scraps likely scavenged from whatever he could find. And though he was annoyingly inquisitive, he was also keenly observant and resourceful. Geralt had previously noted that Jaskier was clearly no fool to have survived on his own like this for as long as he has – and this was indeed the case, when Geralt returned to the makeshift camp to find Jaskier waiting with a freshly-caught rabbit in each hand.

His expression must have betrayed his thoughts, as Jaskier was grinning ear to ear as he approached. “I grew up hunting rabbits,” he explained. “It’s much easier with a bow and arrow, but I can still manage to make a good snare.”

While Geralt started a fire, Jaskier made quick work of the rabbits with a makeshift knife he had tucked under his belt. He hummed to himself all the while, an upbeat tune punctuated by occasional words and whistles.

“Stop that,” Geralt said.

“Stop what?”

“The singing. It’ll draw attention.” So far, they had not encountered anything worse than the occasional bandit or Fallen, but Geralt did not want to take any chances.

“Well, I’ve got you around, haven’t I?” Jaskier said, spiking the rabbits onto a sharpened branch to set over the fire. “Big ol’ scary Risen like you, even a Warlord would think twice before attacking us.”

The confidence with which he spoke made Geralt uneasy. For someone who was no stranger to Warlords, Jaskier placed a lot of faith in other Risen – like the Iron Lords, and Geralt, and the Risen he claimed to have saved his life.

Geralt spent a lot more time than he expected wondering about them. For a long time, he thought of himself as the only Risen who did not use his powers to subjugate; to hear Jaskier talk about things like Iron Lords and the fabled Pilgrim Guard…he could not help but hope that they were all real. That there were others like him out there, other Risen who felt that using their powers to hurt other people was wrong.

* * *

They came across an abandoned town and made their camp inside the most intact building. From what Geralt could tell, its former residents must have voluntarily left: there were no signs of violence anywhere. Jaskier even managed to find a stash of preserved goods under the floorboards of one of the houses, and was already halfway through an entire can of mashed beans by the time Geralt found him. Geralt scolded him for not waiting for Roach to scan them to make sure they were actually still edible, but Jaskier simply shrugged.

“Short and miserable life, remember?” he said, mouth still full. “You, Mr. Risen, have lifetimes to enjoy what little pleasures remain at your leisure. I’ve got just the one. Got to savor these things while I can.” He poured the remaining contents of the can directly into his mouth and nearly choked on it.

“Alright, take it easy,” Geralt sighed, watching as Jaskier sputtered and coughed. “It’ll probably taste better if we cook it.”

“Yeah, probably,” Jaskier wheezed.

The cans were all labeled in a language neither Geralt nor Roach knew; Jaskier could read the words, but had no clue what most of them actually were. The rest of the day quickly devolved into a game of trying to guess what the contents of certain cans were and tasting them. The stranger ones Jaskier insisted that Geralt eat first, reasoning that if it was actually poisonous then Geralt could always be revived (a scenario that Roach seemed to find rather amusing).

A few hours later, stomach full and content, they were lying around the fire pit on mattresses they had dragged out from one of the houses. Jaskier was humming again. Geralt could not remember the last time he had felt this…at ease, out in the wilds. His thoughts drifted, and he found himself thinking again about the Risen Jaskier always talked about. “What happened to him?”

Jaskier turned to look at him with a questioning look.

“The Risen who saved you,” Geralt clarified. “He told you about this city. Why didn’t you go with him?”

For a moment, Jaskier was uncharactaristically penseive. “I wanted to,” he said. “But I was too young, could barely look after myself. The journey would’ve been too much for me, even with another Risen to look after me. I would’ve just gotten in the way.”

Geralt could feel his medallion sit heavily on his chest. “How old were you?”

“Not sure. Thirteen – fourteen, maybe? No one kept track, we were too busy just trying to survive…” Jaskier trailed off.

“What happened?” Geralt dreaded asking, but he had to know. There was nothing he could do to change the past, but at least he could share its burden.

“A Fallen ketch found us. Attacked us at night. We didn’t have any weapons to fight back, but they didn’t care, just started butchering everyone. Then this armored Risen comes out of nowhere, starts fighting them off like nothing I’ve ever seen, blazing with violet fire…” Jaskier let out a deep sigh, and suddenly he seemed so much older than he might have been. “He managed to arrive in time to save me, but the others…”

Not for the first time, Geralt wondered if the reason he had no memories was an act of mercy on the Traveler’s part, to spare him from remembering any loved ones he might have left behind. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It…must have been horrific.”

“Well…it was a long time ago,” Jaskier said, smiling softly. “And I’m alive, thanks to that Risen – Saint-14, he called himself. He couldn’t take me with them then, but he told me about the city, to find him there when I was ready.”

“And then you’ll make the best of your short and miserable life,” Geralt said, returning the smile.

Jaskier grinned. “Oh yes, I most certainly will.”


	4. Law of the Jungle

I.

_He remembered everything about his second death._

_He had barely been alive for long, still trying to make sense of what was happening, when he heard alien shrieks ringing around him. He scrambled through the woods in panic trying to get away, but the Fallen caught up to him and gutted him with their spears. Twice more he died this way._

_The fourth time, he fought back with all the ferocity he could muster. He killed the last of them before bleeding to death, then awoke a fifth time in the carnage he had left behind._

_As time went on, death became easier. Never any less painful or terrifying, but he learned from each one. Sometimes, it was better to purposely let himself be killed in one way, if only to avoid a slower and more painful death later on. He learned that to kill a Risen one must kill their Ghost, so he made sure to send his own away to ensure that his death, if any, would not be his last._

_And slowly, he began to learn how to avoid dying entirely._

* * *

Geralt opened his eyes with a sharp intake of breath. His hand was already reaching out for the nearest weapon strewn on the ground as he looked around, but there was no need to keep fighting: every last Fallen lay dead before him.

“What a sight!” Jaskier breathed out with relief as he scrambled out from the thick brush he had been hiding under, stepping carefully around the alien bodies as he approached. “I thought I’d seen it all with Saint-14, but you’re something else, Geralt.” Geralt hummed in vague acknowledgment as they started searching the Fallen corpses for anything useful.

The first time Jaskier had seen Geralt die had been a similar situation. He remembered waking up to a panicked and surprised Jaskier kneeling next to him. “Oh, thank the Traveler, you’re alive!” Jaskier blurted out as he closed his eyes in relief.

Geralt had given him an odd look. “You know it’s almost impossible for me to die, right?”

“Yes, of course I _know_ , I just…I’ve never seen it up close, you know? Normally people stay dead, and you – well, you were _dead_ , actually _dead_ , on the ground, and I…” Jaskier took a deep breath. “I’m just glad you’re alive, is all.”

The second time Jaskier saw Geralt die, things turned out much differently. He woke up to the sounds of Jaskier’s yelling and a shock pistol firing and the sharp smell of ether in the air. Jaskier jumped at the sound of movement behind him, and nearly shot Geralt to another death. The next few minutes were filled with several of Jaskier’s creative swears, followed by profuse apologies.

After Jaskier had calmed down a bit, Geralt had pointed out that he did not need to have intervened, but Jaskier simply shrugged. “It wasn’t that bad,” he said, tossing the spent pistol to the ground. “I found it quite cathartic, actually.”

“We need to get a gun for this one,” Roach had said, amused and impressed.

“Don’t give him any ideas,” was Geralt’s response.

Still, there was merit in Roach’s comment, and from then on Geralt kept an eye out for anything that could make a potentially suitable weapon for Jaskier. He had mentioned something before about hunting rabbits with bows, and he clearly knew his way around firearms well enough to operate a Fallen pistol. An ally in combat would be immensely helpful to Geralt, even if Jaskier could only fight from a distance.

“Ah hah!” Jaskier cried out. Geralt looked up to see him holding a scortch cannon. The weapon itself was useless, having been broken at some point during the fight, but Jaskier was already at work prying away a long piece of wire coiled around the casing.

Geralt walked over, unslinging the long tree branch he had slung over his shoulders and holding it up next to the wire. “Perfect length,” he said.

“And quiter than a shock rifle,” Jaskier said, taking the tree branch to wrap the wire around it.

Later, by the light of moon and fire pit, Jaskier would finish tying the wires around the ends of the branch. He pulled out a few arrows he had already made and tested the makeshift bow on a target carved into nearby tree trunk. An hour later, he was landing bullseyes with a consistency that impressed even Geralt.

* * *

Geralt took no pleasure in killing anything, including Fallen. He suspected there was more to their motives than simply pillaging what remained of humanity, but he did not know their language to negotiate – and even if he did, he was not sure that they would be willing to listen. The only language they shared was violence; killing and death were the only words they spoke to each other.

He had not wanted to go through the valley, but the only alternative was to traverse the mountains: a trip that Geralt was certain Jaskier could not survive. They managed to make it through three days before they found themselves surrounded on all sides by an entire camp’s worth of Fallen. Normally, Geralt would not be worried about such odds – he had faced much more before on his own – but this time he was with Jaskier, an ordinary human. This time, there was much more at stake.

The fifth time he was brought back from death, Geralt turned to Jaskier and told him to run.

Jaskier, who was standing over him keeping the Fallen at a distance with his arrows, looked at him incredulously. “What? No, I’m staying right here.”

“There’s no way we’d both survive. The least you can do is save yourself.”

“I’m not going anywhere!”

Geralt died a sixth time shielding Jaskier from a Fallen arc bolt. When he woke up, Jaskier was still there. “For fuck’s sake, Jaskier, run!” he yelled.

“I can’t just leave you here, Geralt!” Jaskier was out of arrows now. “I won’t leave you to fight them alone!”

Realizing they were out of ammo, the Fallen began to charge at them. Geralt focused his Light and conjured a barrier to buy them a little more time. “Dammit, Jaskier! At this rate, neither of us will make it to the city! If you run now, then at least _you_ can still make it!”

"I – "

The barrier shattered. The Fallen were upon them now. Geralt watched as Jaskier brandished his bow like a maul, and he understood: Jaskier had made his decision long ago. If he was going to die, then he was going to die fighting.

The weight of his medallion was firm against his chest.

Arc energy coalesced around him, solar flames flared from his body, a void shimmer engulfed him as he felt the Light flow through him –

He _cannot_ let Jaskier die.

* * *

When the Light finally dissipated, the valley was strewn with the remains of the Fallen and their weapons, and Geralt stood at the eye of the storm. He was breathing heavily, he had never felt power like that. He had used the Light before in combat, but never to this scale; he had not known this was even _possible_.

He looked behind him and saw Jaskier standing there, speechless, looking at him with the same awe in his eyes as the first time they met.

But then Jaskier’s gaze flicked over Geralt’s shoulder and the awe shifted to alertness. Geralt turned around to see several armored figures standing on the ridge overlooking the valley. Hovering by each of their shoulders were the unmistakable silhouettes of Ghosts.

Sparks gathered around Geralt’s fists as he readied himself for another fight.

“Wait,” Jaskier said, grabbing his shoulder. “Those aren’t Warlords…”

Geralt turned to look at Jaskier, whose gaze never left the figures. “They’re Iron Lords,” Jaskier breathed.

One of the figures was descending from the ridge now, his Ghost trailing close behind him. He wore heavy armor lined with fur and inlaid with patterns of flora and fauna. Over his shoulders he carried the biggest sword Geralt had ever seen. “That was quite the fight,” the man said as he approached, his voice sage and graveled. “Viscious, like a wolf in the hunt.”

He must have sensed Geralt’s apprehension, giving a small smile as he stopped a respectable distance away. “No need to be wary, Lightbearer. We heard the fight a mile out and came to assist, but,” he surveyed the aftermath around him, “it seems you had the situation under control.”

Geralt regarded the man. “You must be one of the Iron Lords I’ve heard so much about,” he said.

“Indeed.” The man looked at Geralt curiously. “You seem surprised.”

“I’ve only ever heard stories of Iron Lords near the mountains north of here,” Gerald said. “Even if they were true, I didn’t expect that there could be any this far south.”

“Nor did we expect to see travelers here,” the Iron Lord replied. “How is it that a Lightbearer and his Lightless companion find themselves on the fringes of Fallen territory?”

“We’re looking for the Last City,” Geralt answered. He gestured at Jaskier. “This one asked me to help take him there.”

“I see,” the Iron Lord said. “You’re in luck, then: we were just headed for the City ourselves. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind some extra company on your journey?”

Geralt turned to look at Jaskier, who was besides himself with barely contained excitement, then looked back at the Iron Lord. “We’d appreciate that.”


End file.
